Phantom Limb
by NeverLookBackSamurai
Summary: He doubles over with a soft cry, clutching his left arm as he rolls over into the fetal position, teeth grinding together, lips bleeding as he bites down on the tender flesh to keep himself from shrieking in pure agony... Malik centric.


Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any material related to Ubisoft in any way or form.

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A/N: Didn't expect this to come out the way it did, but I figured it's a way to "celebrate" the end of first semester finals. I'm trying to work on two Des/Luc and Ez/Ro stories I've got in mind, but the plot bunnies don't want to hop for me. Figured I'd try my hand at exploring something new.

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Inspiration: Assassin's Creed art titled "Moonlight" which I found off of deviantart combined with the string ensemble "L'Estro Armonico, Op. 3 - Concerto #6 In A Minor, RV 356, 2. Largo" (Vivaldi).

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Cold days are always the worst for Malik. When he sits alone in the Bureau, especially at night, the faint scratching of his quill against parchment as he records the various proceedings of the Assassins in Jerusalem is the only sound to break the night's eternal quiet.

Tonight, Malik's studious application to his work does not take his mind off the pain that streaks, hot and excruciating, from the point where the fingers of his left arm should be, up into his shoulder. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead as he places his quill back into the nearby inkwell, and his right hand claws at his left arm in agony, gasping at the sudden pain.

The two assistants who help him maintain a map-making storefront for the Bureau are not awake at this hour to help him through this painful episode. But then again, Malik hates nothing more than the looks of pity they give each other as they administer a strong dose of painkiller to try and help ease him into a restive sleep.

Their medicines never work, Malik realizes grimly, lips set in a thin, harsh line as another wave of torture rips through his arm. For all the knowledge he has accumulated through years of book-study, he has never come across anything like this: the pain a man experiences through a lost limb.

Malik utters a curse as his eyes begin to blur; the pain causes tears to spring to his eyes, and he feels his head grow light. Despite the late hour, his keen hearing picks up the soft thud of an assassin coming through the roof, and the almost inaudible footsteps padding over the ground toward the doorway.

But he doesn't have any time to be concerned; he sees nothing but a blurred column of white streaked with red and brown approaching him, senses a sudden change in the air as the figure rushes toward him, but Malik doesn't care, the pain is the only thing that matters, the pain, the pain, make it stop…

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When Malik wakes, he can see the moon through the lattice high above him, hanging in the sky like an omnipresent eye. He's lying on the plush cushions in the Bureau's resting area, stripped of his _kameez_ and blanketed in the cloak that marks him as Jerusalem's _rafiq_, staring up at the clear night in a sort of numbed amazement. For a fleeting moment he wonders why he's half-naked on a chilly night with rivulets of sweat running down his body—searing hot instead of freezing—when the pain seizes him again.

He doubles over with a soft cry, clutching his left arm as he rolls over into the fetal position, teeth grinding together, lips bleeding as he alternately bites down on the tender flesh to keep himself from shrieking in pure agony. He doesn't hear the footsteps as they pad over swiftly; only his skin registers the warm, friendly hands that prop him up against an equally warm body.

Malik's soft whimpers of pain die down as the stranger begins to gently massage what's left of his arm, murmuring words of comfort in his ear. The pain subsides, drains from his "fingertips" with each slow press of fingers to cramped muscle. Malik groans softly as he is relieved of the pain, but it still lingers deep in the furthest reaches of muscle and bone, and he knows it will come back all too soon.

"Malik…" The _rafiq_ inhales sharply at the familiar voice, one he has heard all too often in boisterous jests and challenges, but rarely in comfort. His head rolls to the left, nearly off the assassin's shoulder, but a quick hand cups his cheek and pulls Malik's head into the crook of a neck and gently cradles him there. Malik closes his eyes, moaning softly as the ache lances up his arm, though not as painful as before, and he hears a slightly metallic thud as the stranger shifts to place something against the wall.

When Malik's eyes open once more, his eyes find a polished bronze mirror reflecting the soft moonlight onto his chest, bathing his left arm in silver. The stranger, Malik sees, is cowled in the classic garb of a master assassin, and the reflected light does not reach the face of his friend. Altaïr lifts Malik's right hand into the line of sight the mirror offers him.

"Hold it there. Keep moving your hand and arm until the pain goes away." Malik does as he says, watching, fascinated. He sees his left arm as it was before the whole business with the Templar Nine: strong and toned, the veins stark against his sun-kissed skin as he flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist. The motions of his right arm are mirrored exactly in his left, and Malik watches in amazement, almost aware of the air swirling around his left hand as he moves his arm up and down rapidly, fingers splayed out as far as they can go.

Altaïr watches this display silently, watches the therapy he constructed for his friend work like magic. There is a noticeable difference in Malik's body as he lies against Altaïr's lean frame: the muscles slowly relax, sweat dries on his bare chest as blood clots on his lips from where Malik bit them.

A dull clang resounds through the Bureau, startling Altaïr as Malik gently sets the mirror reflection-side-down on the ground. The _rafiq_ glances up at the other assassin, who removes his cowl as he passes his thumb over Malik's abused lips, his own pursing together as his mind rifles through thoughts of any remedy which would make those cuts heal faster. Slowly, carefully, Altaïr lifts Malik's body off of his own, laying him down on the lush cushions before he draws himself up and throws the _rafiq_ coat back over Malik's exposed body.

As Malik watches Altaïr's retreating back, he hears him muttering under his breath. Something about "this time _he_ gets hurt," and "just like all the others, _I_ have to heal him," and Malik can't help but smile, eyes closing in utter exhaustion. He feels himself drifting, for the first time in months, into a peaceful slumber. Once more, he looks up at the moon, lower in the sky now, but still shining its silver light, and Malik's lips move in a silent prayer as tears of relief streak down his cheeks.

_Thank you, Altaïr. Thank you._


End file.
